The Book Witch

All stories are love stories if you love stories.

The fictional characters we love stamp their names on our hearts. They show us how to fight our battles, how to change, how to make it to page three hundred a different person than we were on page one.

If you're afraid to read a book it's probably because you know it has something to say to you that you don't want to hear.

It had happened to me too. It happens to most of us if we’re lucky enough. The fictional characters we love stamp their names on our hearts. They show us how to fight our battles, how to change, how to make it to page three hundred a different person than we were on page one.

those who loved books and those who wanted to ban them have one single thing in common—we all believe reading a book can change you. It’s only that the book banners consider this a bug, and Maxine—and likely everyone in this room—sees it as a feature.

Time passes like the pages of a favorite story, drawing ever nearer the end whether we like it or not.

You know what they say—love laughs at locksmiths.

That’s why I love you, Rainy March. Because when I’m with you, I’m real.

If you were a book, I would read every page of you in one sitting and then when it was over, I’d start back at page one and read you again. If our life together was a story, I’d want it to be a million pages long, a billion pages. I hope there are scenes in the book of our love that burn holes in the paper. I hope the happy chapters are the longest and the saddest chapters are barely a page. And I hope and pray that however our story ends, it ends with us together and the last word of the story of our life is ‘forever.

The story of my life was a story... it is a mystery, one we're all trying to solve.

Immortality is overrated.” Duke brought his hand to my neck, stroking it. “I’d far rather be able to grow old.” “Really? Why?” “If I can’t grow old, I can’t grow old with you.” Ever have anyone say something so violently

I gave Mr. Burton the traditional salute—palms together and then opening them as if my hands were a book or butterfly wings.

when she showed up on my grandparents’ doorstep, she was eight months pregnant

Read me and I’ll show you what passion looks like on paper… Read me and breathe the rusted red air of Mars… Read me and I’ll reveal to you what really happened in that lonely cabin in the dark, dark woods… Read me, for you think you’re too old for unicorns and fairies, but in my pages, you’ll learn you are a mere baby in the eyes of these ancient beings, and don’t you want to feel like a child again? Read me and remember… Read me and forget… Read me and hate… Read me and fall in love… Read me and learn the secrets you’ve been keeping from yourself…

Have you met authors, Duke? They aren’t criminal masterminds. Authors are anemic agoraphobes who sit in dark rooms and hallucinate. They’re more like moths than people.